


A Very Fine Line

by FangQueen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Cheating, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, HP: EWE (ish), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempts, Love/Hate, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, anxiety/depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-03 12:19:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6610456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FangQueen/pseuds/FangQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six years after the war, Draco Malfoy is still struggling with the trauma he experienced and just trying to survive day-to-day. Ron Weasley is stuck in a marriage he never wanted and hoping that Draco can be his escape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Haa...W-Weasley…”

When the only answer I was provided with was another thrust upwards, I assumed he hadn’t realized I wasn’t just crying out his name, I was trying to get his attention. Hands braced in front of me on the comforter, in between his outstretched legs, I rocked back to meet him, biting my bottom lip in frustration when the head just barely brushed my prostate. Hey, I’m all for new positions and everything, but I was right on the edge, and it just. wasn’t. enough...

“ _Weasley_ …”

“Mmm?”

Damnit, almost there again. Around a--rather embarrassing--whine, I managed to choke out: “I know you...ah...I know you can do it harder than that, bitch.”

The last bit was unnecessary, I know, but it achieved the desired result nonetheless. The freckled hand that had been toying with my left nipple suddenly reached up and latched onto my hair, harshly tugging my head backwards, exposing my neck so that he could promptly attack it with his teeth when he leaned up from behind. Next thing I knew, I was being shoved onto my hands and knees, and he was gripping my hips hard enough to leave bruises as he slammed into me again. God, yes, this was _exactly_ what I needed. Stroke after stroke, he hit the target with ease, ripping increasingly strangled noises from my throat each time. I knew he loved to do that, to build up my frustration, pretend like he didn’t know what I was asking for, only to bend me over and show me just why I kept coming back to him every single time--because he knew how to touch me in ways that I sometimes didn’t even know myself. My fingers clawed at the sheets, desperate for some leverage to push back against him, but the pace he’d set now proved too much for me. By the time he’d leaned down to nibble my earlobe, I was a goner.

I felt him smirk around the skin between his lips as he teased in a husky tone, “You’re my little whore, aren’t you? You love it when I fuck you till you feel like you’re going to break, don’t you?” All witty retorts were completely lost on me, because I was already coming, coating his hand that was pumping the life out of me and muffling a scream of relief with one of my own palms as I convulsed under him. He was right, though; I was his. Wasn’t like anyone else had had the privilege of seeing me this way as of late, and the cocky bastard knew it, too.

“Fuck, Malfoy,” he whispered breathlessly in response, burying his nose in the crook between my shoulder and neck and descending into a succession of swift, chaotic thrusts that I knew from experience signalled his own impending orgasm. Shortly after, I heard his customary grunt, and he stilled briefly as he finished. For a moment, we remained thusly--him draped over my back, his spent cock pulsing lazily inside me, and me with my ass in the air and head propped on my folded arms. Soon, though, he slid off the bed to retrieve his wand, and I made my way to the bathroom, snatching up my own along the way.

Behind the closed door, I took a moment to freshen up and assess the damage. My collarbone and neck were littered with love bites, the new ones from today standing out in all their red-ish purple glory next to the dull yellow ones that had faded from the last time. There were nail marks on my hips from where he’d gripped me so tightly, and I could already feel how sore I was going to be by tomorrow. I sighed at my reflection, counting down till it would be safe to reemerge. We both knew we spelled ourselves clean each time, and therefore there was no reason whatsoever for me to be in here, but I had taken to hiding when I’d found the awkwardness that followed our first few encounters to be too much to handle. Let him get dressed and get out alone so we didn’t have to suffer through the uncomfortable goodbyes--that was the idea. I’d only even taken a piss and washed my hands to kill time. A couple minutes passed, and I didn’t hear him moving around out there anymore, but then again, I hadn’t heard the front door shut like I’d expected, either. Impatient, I poked my head out, furrowing my brow at what I found.

The redhead had only gotten as far as putting his boxer-briefs back on, and now he was perched on the edge of the mattress, bent over with his elbows resting on his knees. His wedding ring still lay discarded on the nightstand. His hands were twisting together, and I could actually see the strain in his taut, chiseled muscles. It looked like he was lost in thought. My suspicions were confirmed when he suddenly jolted back to life, flicking his eyes up to discover that I’d caught him, and we locked gazes for a moment. Damn. I assumed it would only make things worse if I ducked into the bathroom again at this point, so I decided “fuck it,” and came back out to stride over to the trail we’d made of my outfit from the corridor towards the foot of the bed, avoiding glancing his way again as best I could. The tension in the room was tangible. This just wasn’t done; he never took more than a minute or two to leave, and he sure as hell never sat on my goddamn bed, dawdling and watching me tidy up. I had my drawers in my hand and was about to step into them, but his gaze was burning a hole in me, and so I finally straightened up and threw a raised eyebrow his way.

“What?” My voice sounded hoarse from misuse. For a moment, he looked surprised that I’d actually spoken. Again, we just...we didn’t do this. Ever. When we first began this odd little affair, of course we did, we’d had to feel each other out, conduct coded conversations dripping with euphemism to see if we were each as ready for it as we were hoping, but now...There was typically an owl from him saying something along the lines of, “Hey, I’m coming over later,” if there was even any warning at all, and of course the occasional exchange of pleasantries before and a dirty phrase or two during was always welcome, but _talking talking_? Absolutely not. And especially not _after_.

Something I couldn’t comprehend passed over his features, but he didn't choose to answer. Instead, he merely surveyed my body like he was searching for something, and I shuffled uncomfortably.

“Seriously, _what_?” The fact that my voice cracked at the end of the word only served to irritate me further.

He was looking in my eyes again, and fucking hell, at what point did this bloke manage to cultivate such a superb poker face? The King--yes, pun intended--of erratic, often irrational, emotion, and here he was, making _me_ feel absurd for being just a little put-off. Perhaps Auror training had done more than provide him with a body I practically worshipped...Anyway, I had a right to be upset, didn't I? It wasn't every day I risked my very life, shagging a guy whose wife could teach an entire semester on how to reduce me to ashes with one flick of her wand and get away with it. Okay, so maybe it _was_ every day, recently--or damn well near, at least--but that didn't mean I wanted the man to hang around. I don't even think I would enjoy discussing this...this _mess_ , quite frankly, that I (infrequently) dared to call a relationship, let alone having the object of said confusion _staring at me_ and lounging about my flat for longer than it took to get me off.

Finally, he replied, “Nothing.” My expression mostly likely conveyed how unconvinced I was, because he added: “Just thinking about how much I hate your guts, Ferret.”

This wasn’t the first time in our history that I’d ever heard him say that. Truthfully, I’ve been known to toss out a few choice words myself from time to time. But there was something profoundly different about this that immediately halted every protest I’d mentally conjured during the time it took him to say it. What I normally would’ve done was insult him in return, maybe suggest he tell the “missus” hi for me when he got home--oh, and to please do let me know how it went, explaining to her how it appeared he was exceedingly more fond of my ass and dick than he was of her pussy and tits. But there was still an unusually-soft lilt in his tone and that look in his eyes that I just couldn’t read. Testing the limits was something I did often with this particular man. Had ever since we were kids. I wasn't the type to back down once I got something in my head, and he wasn’t shy about letting me know whenever I’d gone too far. So I had expected to be brushed off when I dropped my underwear, strode over, and forcefully pressed my lips to his. Instead, I was met with a tenderness that shocked me. Somehow, we’d managed to keep the kissing to a minimum over the past--Merlin’s balls, _six months_. Obviously, that’s not long at all in the grand scheme of things, but considering the nature of our...whatever, it was a hell of a lot longer than I’d yet realized. But now this man, who, as far as I knew, would much rather shove my face into a pillow than snog me, was trailing a hand up to cup the back of my head and play with the short strands of hair at the base.

Unfortunately, as quickly as it had started, it ended with him pulling away and glancing at the clock on the far wall. “Shit, I have to go.”

I jumped out of the way as he scrambled to his feet. Within seconds, he was fully dressed and rushing towards the front door. Choosing to remain naked, I instead opted for merely lighting myself a cigarette and following him just far enough to lean against the bedroom door frame. Knob in hand, he paused and turned back to look me over once more.

“I’m sorry to leave so suddenly, it’s just--”

I couldn't imagine what would've possessed him to think he needed to explain to his mistress, for lack of a better term, where he was running off to, nor to apologize about it. “I know, it’s okay. She on her way back?”

“Yeah, she should be there soon, so...you know.”

“I do. It’s fine. Really.”

Nervous silence hung between us, in which we both kept staring at each other--wondering, I supposed, who was going to say it first. Much to my relief, he ended up taking the lead:

“Hey, so...you free Wednesday night?”

That was a stupid question; considering my job wasn’t necessarily a regular nine-to-five, I was pretty much free whenever. Being an advice columnist had its perks, namely: a) I got to work from home and b) I got to set my own hours, for the most part. However, both were also it’s downfalls, as I usually ended up either becoming completely consumed by my writing for days on end, or it just resulted in me thinking I could slack off right up until a deadline. Regardless, an occasional distraction was nice, and they typically came in the form of my biweekly best friend dates with Blaise and/or Pansy, or in the random conjugal visits from the man before me now. “More or less.”

“I mean: do you have any writing to do that night?”

I didn’t have to think hard on it. Anything I ever had to do could always be moved around for an hour of amazing sex. “Not particularly.”

“So, I’ll stop by, then?”

“Yeah. ‘Course.”

“Great. Awesome.”

“Yeah.”

“‘K...bye, then.”

“Bye…”

He turned to the doorknob once more, and I found myself saying it without even knowing why, my voice tight as I exhaled a cloud of smoke.

“Hey, Weasel.”

“Yeah?”

“I hate you, too.”

He smiled. Goddamnit, he _smiled_. I could’ve died, right then and there, just stopped breathing, stopped everything, and collapsed onto the hardwood floor. But instead my face muscles somehow contorted themselves into a similar expression, and I waved as he exited.

“See you Wednesday.”

“See you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Yes, this is going to be a multi-chapter fic, so if you really enjoyed it, know that there will be more! I've actually already started on the second chapter, and so I hope to have it up soon. :3


	2. Chapter 2

The bell on the handle jingled pleasantly as I stepped inside the small cafe, effectively drowning out all the noise from the bustling Diagon Alley street when the door swung shut again behind me. November had brought with it a chill that shook me to the bone, and so I was quite thankful to be in the comforting warmth of the shop. Despite the busyness inside, the sound of chatter was at much more of a hum than what I’d just walked out of. I didn’t have to look far to find my companion, who was seated at our usual table near the back, and he smiled and waved me over once he spotted me as well. When I neared him, he half-stood to squeeze my bicep and plant a quick kiss on my cheek.

“Hey, love.”

“Hey.” Grumpy as I was, I returned the peck. My father might’ve been sent to an early grave at such a display, but I’d long stopped caring. Besides, Blaise and I had both been out for years now, and it was just how we were with each other. We could take away the relationship status and turn it into a more platonic affection, but apparently the actual gestures were harder habits to break than we’d realized. Probably didn't help that we’d still slept together on and off since then, pretty much right up until everything with my current predicament started.

He peered at me warily as I flopped into my chair. “You okay?”

I’d only gotten about two hours of sleep the night before, so “okay” didn’t quite describe it. Served me right for waiting up until my deadline to actually get my arse in gear, but that didn’t mean I was any less irritable now. “Pulled an all-nighter for work, but otherwise I’m fine.”

“Ah.” Being a banker, my fellow Slytherin didn’t always understand my career nor my hours. Hence why he tended to schedule best friend dates that forced me to get up at ungodly hours of the morning. He was very supportive, though--beyond the occasional ribbing that had come with me first landing the position. I’d heard the phrase, “Who would ask you for life advice?”, more times than I’d ever imagined I would. “Did you get everything done, though?”

“Yeah, only just.”

“Well, that’s good.”

“Good morning, gentlemen! Are you ready to order, or do you need a few minutes?” Same waitress every time, and she was always this damn chipper, regardless of how often I shot her full of daggers with my eyes. She also had a tendency to talk to us as if it was our first time coming in, which I found utterly absurd.

“Coffee,” we both answered in unison, and she giggled to herself as she drew her memo pad out of her apron pocket.

“Absolutely! Cream and sugar?”

“Please.”

“Great, great. And to eat?”

“Oh! Uh...I hadn’t even thought of that yet, I’m so sor--” I caught sight of Blaise’s disapproving stare from across the table and made a point to glare right back. “What?”

“Please don’t tell me you’re just going to have coffee, like you always do.”

“I don’t alwa--look, sometimes I’m just not hungry, okay?” “ _Sometimes_ ,” he scoffed, and I pressed on: “ _Yes_ , sometimes. Like at eight in the fucking morning, hours before I even wake up most days, let alone eat.” At my language, the waitress shuffled her feet, and so I sighed and returned my attention to her. “Fine, I’ll have…” my eyes quickly scanned the menu, picking out a dish that seemed reasonable enough to me, “poached eggs, and a side of toast.” My dear friend didn’t appear to agree that that was a decent amount of food, but he ordered his usual nonetheless and didn’t push the matter further...That was, until the young lady was safely out of earshot.

“Dray...do you need me to pay for it, is that it?”

Coloring significantly, I hissed back in a harsh tone, “No, that’s not the issue, I’m seriously just not hungry right now.” My finances, or lack thereof, were certainly not a topic of conversation I needed to have at this time of the morning, not when I was so dangerously close to a migraine as it was. Just as I’d explain to him many a time, the simple fact that I’d decided I’d wanted nothing to do with my parents or their money after the trials, and that I’d subsequently chosen a profession that no one in their right mind would consider the most lucrative in the world, did _not_ make me a charity case by any means. I had trouble getting my bills in order from time to time, but that was my business. However, when I saw his face fall for a brief moment, I instantly felt guilty over snapping at him. It wasn’t like him to show hurt outwardly--hell, the last time I’d seen it was probably when we’d broken up, and that was several years ago now. I knew he was just trying to be a good friend, but my stupid pride often got in the way.

After an uncomfortable beat, he chided in a distinctly motherly tone that reminded me of why we’d ceased dating in the first place, “ _Have_ you been eating, though? That jumper looks like it’s trying to swallow you alive.”

“I forget once in awhile, you know how I am. Does it really look that bad?” Now he was studying said jumper suspiciously, and I narrowed my eyes at him as I tugged at it awkwardly. I knew it wasn’t the most flattering thing around, and yes it was huge on me, somehow, but I hadn’t really had the time nor been in the mindset to care what I was wearing when I left my apartment all of twenty minutes ago.

“Let me see something.” He suddenly rose and crossed around the table, then (ignoring my protests) yanked open the back of my sweater. “Since when do you wear an extra large?”

“Huh?”

“And is this a muggle brand?”

“What? Is it really?!”

“Oh my god...”

“What?”

“Are you wearing his sweater?”

Now I found my cheeks pinkening for an entirely different reason. Chuckling, Blaise returned to his seat just as the waitress came by with our beverages, and I frowned down at the offending garment. I’d been so deliriously sleep deprived when I’d rolled off the sofa earlier that I’d just grabbed the first clean-looking thing within reach. It was more than a little disturbing to think that that ended up being something of Weasley’s... _Was_ it even his? Well, if the size was correct, it had to be. And, thinking on it, I recalled earnestly pulling something equally as woolen and maroon over his head at one point, probably while I was simultaneously straddling him on said couch. Not sure when, exactly, that was, nor how he’d managed to leave without it. When I looked up again, Blaise was still sporting an amused sparkle in his eyes that I knew well, and the waitress had somehow left and returned with our meal. Ignoring his grin, I buttered and bit into a slice of toast, washing it down with a swig of coffee. Blissfully, he allowed us to eat for some time before commenting.

“How’s that going, by the way?” At my rather vain attempt at feigning innocence, he added, “Don’t bullshit me, you know what I’m talking about.”

I sighed and leaned back in my chair, running a hand through my tousled hair as I briefly scanned the cafe to make sure no one of note had entered without my knowledge. How was it going? That wasn’t a question I fully knew how to answer. So I settled for: “As good as it could be, I guess? I don't know, what would you expect from something like that?”

“Well, I didn’t expect for it to be going on for as long as it has been, to tell you the truth. And I feel like it’s every other day now, you’re telling me he’s coming over.”

“Yeah, it seems to be more and more lately.” Not positive how much I’ve minded that, anyway, but I didn’t choose to say that aloud. Then I frowned as I considered it. ”Actually, I think it’s been over a week since I’ve seen him...Yeah, last Wednesday, he came over and...well, you know, the usual, but then he said he had something or other to take care of, and I haven’t heard from him since…”

“Do you think she’s...found out?”

We locked gazes while I pondered the validity of that assumption. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that Granger wasn’t around enough to know what the fuck her husband was up to half the time. After Flitwick had stepped down a couple years back, she’d been first in line to take over the position of Charms professor, and, rather than having her new (at the time) spouse join her at the castle, maybe even get a house together in Hogsmeade, she’d chosen to live there alone Monday through Friday and just come home every weekend. They’d gotten engaged right around the time that I’d started hanging out with Potter. Yes, it _still_ shocks me just as much as it does everyone else, the idea that I may (begrudgingly) call the git a _friend_ nowadays and even use his given name on occasion, but we’ve decided to let bygones be bygones. And no, it had nothing to do with the fact that the sodding “Golden Trio” were some of the only people from the opposite side that had the balls to stand up for me during my trial, nor that their word ended up being the majority of the reason I’d gotten off easy, _nor_ that a random owl from him, checking up on me and asking if I would actually come to his wedding if he sent me an invitation, was the reason why I stopped myself that day and never attempted suicide again...Oh, who am I kidding? Anyway, their proposal was announced within _hours_ , or so it seemed, of Potter’s marriage to the Weasley sister. And, obviously, being on friendly terms with the Boy-Who-Lived pretty much forced me into the other two-thirds of the group’s lives more than I’d ever intended. Thus, I was presented with the opportunity to finally observe the dynamics of their relationship up close. I was not at all impressed with what I saw. During our years at Hogwarts, rumors had, of course, been bandied about; stories of the two of them being so _in love_ , and so _perfect for each other_ , and all manner of other such trite. The oh-so-romantic tale of the War Hero and the Valiant Female Companion. Sure, they’d fought like cats and dogs nearly every day since our first year, but that was only because they _cared so much about each other_! Please. I could write a better love story than that in my sleep. Although, the similarities are often uncanny, to say the least...To reiterate, I was not even slightly impressed, and honestly, I always felt like they were together because they thought it was just what they were supposed to do. Do I think he's actually gay? Who knows, really. It's not a conversation we’ve chosen to have, nor do I think we ever will, and it’s not really my problem what his sexuality is, so long as he’s still fucking _me_. Regardless of the real answer to that, I also strongly believe there were several conversations that consisted of phrases such as, “But _they’re_ getting married!”, that surrounded their engagement. Therefore, do I think that Granger knows what her freckled husband is up to? And with me in particular (because Merlin forbid I ever ask myself if I think he’s seeing anyone else on top of it)?

“No, I don’t.” If she did, I’m sure he would’ve made some mention of it, or just stopped coming around all together, and one week of not hearing from him isn’t cause enough for alarm, in my opinion. “I don’t know why you always ask me that, anyhow.”

“Well, it’s a tad concerning to me that I seem to be the only one out of the two of us that’s been worried about it all this time. You know what she’ll do to you when she eventually _does_ find out, don’t you? Because she will, if you continue it. It’d be inevitable.”

I knew that. I also knew that I’d tried, in various scenarios over the past few months, to end it. Contrary to popular belief, I do have a heart, and I regret what we've been doing to her on an almost constant basis. But, somehow, every goddamn time I go to open my stupid mouth about it, he gives me that look that could turn me to mush, and I snog him silly instead. “As you’ve said. And I’ve also told you that if I _could_ stop, I would.”

Blaise tsked under his breath. We both returned to finishing off our plates, then split the check and headed back out to the busy street. He had to be at Gringotts for a meeting, and so I hugged him goodbye, and after a reassuring comment of “But seriously, if you get in trouble with all this and need _anything_ , I’m one owl away, remember that,” from my best friend, we parted ways. He could be so kind when he tried; I was probably the only person in the whole wizarding world that he bothered to do it for, too. Really a shame we hadn’t worked out.

I considered stopping by Flourish and Blotts to get a new book, but now that my food had begun to settle, I could feel again in every solitary part of my body how exhausted I was, and decided screw it. Back at my flat, I discovered a stack of mail on the threadbare welcome mat, and I dumped the lot of it with the rest of the ever-growing pile of papers on the dining table while I paused to light a cigarette with the tip of my wand and a muttered spell. Flicking ash into the tray that desperately wanted emptying, I settled down on my chair and pulled them towards me.

The one on top was clearly from my mother. The stately-looking scrawl on the obscenely white parchment was her signature, all right. I debated simply chucking it in the bin, but resigned to opening it anyway. It was short and to the point. She wanted to know, as she did every year, if I was going to be ‘round for holiday in a month--of course sprinkling in a bit of guilt tripping over how, what with my father having been in Azkaban for the past five years, we were the only family each other had left, even if she didn't fully agree with my "lifestyle." Nevermind that I hadn’t considered either of them my family in any real sense of the word since just him beating the shit out of me had turned into his Death Eater buddies...But that wasn’t a tangent I wanted to journey down at this point in time, and so I did indeed end up tossing the thing in the wastebasket, as I _also_ did every year, and moved on.

The next few I rifled through had been forwarded from my editor; advice pieces she wanted answered in the next few issues. I opened the couple that looked intriguing to me right off the bat, pausing as my eyes began to scan the contents of the second one. Fucking hell, _I_ could've written it, for all I knew.Turned out it was from a witch, and it was all about how a guy she knew had started coming on to her recently, but that he was married and, while she was attracted to him, she didn’t feel one hundred percent okay with the idea of fooling around with someone like that. She was asking “Abraxas”--my pen name, after my grandfather--what he would do and if he had ever been in a similar situation. I didn’t know what to say. Part of me wanted to tell her to run for the hills while she still had a chance, but then I saw a flash in my mind of his smirking face from the last time, hair dripping wet from the shower we’d just taken together, and my hand halted halfway towards my quill. Sod it all. I set the letter down and decided I’d come back to it when I had a clearer head.

The last pair in the pile were a tad jarring after that. The first was from Potter, letting me know that “the boys”--meaning his old pals from Hogwarts, mostly Gryffindors--were going out tomorrow evening, and would I like to come? It had been awhile since he’d seen me, blah blah blah, and all that. Yes, it _had_ been awhile, but I had good reason for that. Because wherever Potter was, Weasley was sure to follow, and it was hard enough to look any one of them in the eye in the past few months when I bumped into them on the street or in a shop, but to actually spend time with them was another beast entirely. Although, tomorrow was a Friday, and lately the redhead had been confined to his wife’s side come weekends...That thought was immediately squashed when I saw the last bit of mail, a hastily-scribbled note in a style that I’d grown quite accustomed to reading: _I’ll be there, too, but I think it’ll be okay_. No clue why I would’ve expected more than that. He knew very well how awkward it would be for me to come. But I suppose it would be the same for him...And there was a tightness in my abdomen at the idea that he not only thought it would be okay, that we were somehow strong and discreet enough to handle that, but that he felt the need to reassure me on that without even knowing if I’d received the invitation yet. Fuck, well...I’d just end up looking like an asshole if I said no now. Not that I cared what they thought of me, of course, but...I snatched up my quill had jotted down a brief reply of consent, then set it aside with my column for the next issue to take to the building’s owlery later.

As exhaled my last drag and snuffed out the end in the only free space I could find in the ashtray, I felt my eyelids droop momentarily and recalled how little sleep I’d gotten the previous night. I was pretty well caught up on work for the moment, and after the hours I’d pulled the past couple days, I figured I deserved a nap. I pushed my chair back and rose to cross into my bedroom, where I immediately stripped off my pants and socks. However, when I moved to yank the jumper over my head, I suddenly got a whiff of his cologne and paused. My stomach flooded with butterflies when I remembered again that I was going to be seeing him tomorrow. Sighing, I held the fabric against my face, breathing deeply, and my cock throbbed. Okay. Maybe I’ll have a wank first...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!~ I'm really on a roll with this story; just like last time, I've already written a good chunk of the next chapter, so I hope to be able to update it again soon!

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos/comments = <3!
> 
> Come find me on [Tumblr](https://ohlookagaydraco.tumblr.com/) and [LJ](http://fangqueen.livejournal.com/) as well!


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